Blame life. Blame racism. Blame misogyny. Blame the Director of the FBI. Blame sex, lies and videotapes. Blame social media. Blame the great unwashed. Blame not only their hygiene but their appalling lack of education. Blame the 54% of white women who voted for a guy that jokes about dating his daughter and brags about casually groping complete strangers. Blame nationalism. Blame media bias. Blame the tilt of the world’s axis. Blame the callous, cunting disaster that 2016 has shown itself to be. Blame life. Just don’t blame Hillary Clinton…

…but why the fuck shouldn’t we blame Hillary?

It’s been a month since a man with no demonstrable plan of action (other than a spot of imported bricklaying, blanket xenophobia and a dogged neglect of pressing environmental issues) convinced America he’s the lesser of two evils. It suggested that the other one must be pretty fucking terrifying. Either that, or criminally negligent.

Maybe Trump is right and we should be banging her up after all. Not for all that email brouhaha; I myself know how tricky those servers can be and still can’t get Gmail to stop my messages running off the page like rats from a sinking campaign. Rather she should face trial for running what should have been the easiest presidential race in living memory into the ground in spectacular fashion… and as a result, lumping the whole world with a dangerously out-of-touch, megalomaniacal toupee as its new Commander-in-Chief.

Where did Hillary go wrong? Well, eschewing the advice of her philandering hubby (and Successful President of the United States, Might I Add) turns out not to have been the smartest move she could have made. From the get-go, Monica Lewinsky’s bit on the side heavily pushed a strategy of targeting disillusioned white males in rural communities, figuring that not all of them could be total morons. Hillary decreed otherwise and left these poor unfortunates to fester in the audacity of their ignorance, a decision that meant she lost more battlefield states than her war could ultimately stomach.

While there are certainly some Trumpites who were never going to be won round by Hillary’s icy charms, at least showing her fucking face in Wisconsin might have given them something to think about when they wanted to last longer in the sack. As it was, the state that had voted Democrat for the last 22 years decided that it was far better to be sodomised by the devil you know than the devil who doesn’t even bother to grace you with her presence, and voted accordingly.

As well as overlooking the importance of intense rallying in key swing states, it seems Mrs Clinton also skimped on actually compiling anything regarding an identity for her campaign; even the scare provided by geriatric leftie Bernie Sanders wasn’t enough to jolt the woman into action. Instead of offering change to a country that was so clearly crying out for it, Clinton towed the line of her predecessor and positioned herself as Obama Mark II (only older, whiter, slightly more feminine and significantly less down with da kidz). Even fans of the outgoing president must have been underwhelmed by her stunning lack of ambition, which made it all the easier for Trump to swoop into the breach and promise a bemused electorate the moon and more, all the while conveniently neglecting to explain how.

Indeed, the fact that Trump scooped the hottest seat in world politics without any actual plan, all the while offending as many sections of society as possible, draws an unmistakable line under the limp and lacklustre nature of Hillary’s campaign. As frail as the candidate herself during a brief tussle with pneumonia (in itself a horribly dated affliction to bring a campaign and its proponent to their knees), the Democrat’s push for the top job had less chutzpah and oomph than a turd sandwich. Trump, on the other hand, had both coming out of his orifices in unsettling quantities.

In a time when Americans were raging en masse against the establishment, Clinton opted to hide herself in plain sight by unabashedly donning the mantle of the very thing being raged against. Relying on the supposition that Trump’s obvious turpitude would be enough to win people round, she arrogantly and recklessly ran the campaign on autopilot, confident in the belief that simply not being The Donald would guarantee a waltz into the White House.

But despite his yolky complexion, the egg has well and truly ended up on Hillary’s face. Unfortunately, it’s going to fall to all of us to clear up the albumen…if, of course, there are any of us left to do so once the war-mongering, climate change-denying, minority-belittling, women-objectifying demagogue has had his fun.

The past month hasn’t done much to dull the pain. But maybe it’s best this way. Maybe we’re due a good purge. Maybe, in fact, we should be thanking Hillary. Thanks, Hillary.

Well, we’ve made it. We deployed the stiff upper lip, the fearless spirit that has seen Britain endure three plague epidemics, two world wars and a Margaret Thatcher, and we’ve survived Black Friday for another year.

About three years ago, the biggest shopping day in the United States migrated to her little cousin across the pond. The lack of a Thanksgiving Thursday over here would no longer stop us elbowing our fellow Britons in the jaw in a bid to secure the best deals on massive TVs on Black Friday. Videos of snarling housewives showed the lengths we’d go to for a good deal, dependable consumers that we are.

This year was no different. There were 14 arrests after a mass brawl at Tesco Extra in Watford, and six staff were treated for smoke inhalation as furious shoppers reacted to the Solihull John Lewis selling out of Dell Inspirons by setting fire to the Customer Service counter. A man died in the Russell Hobbs stampede at Lakeside.

The internet is in so many ways a wonderful thing, but it doesn’t seem quite so bloody marvellous, liberating, enlightening or whatever else it’s supposed to be when you can’t fucking use it.

How exactly am I supposed to survive the day when I can’t explore the latest top tips on how to pluck my eyebrows? Life just isn’t the same without being able to consult those useful guides to picking your nose whilst driving.

Hardly the world’s most original thought this, but BT are bunch of unscrupulous, money grabbing, deceitful and wholly unpleasant fuckers. It’s just a pity that I didn’t realise this until I signed up for their broadband service.

What do heavy metal, Rambo knives, the Evil Dead and violent computer games all have in common?

Anyone old enough to hold an opinion worth hearing might recall that they’ve all been focal points for entirely synthetic moral panics, gleefully whipped up by a bloated corporate media always keen to curry political favour and further the next virtue-signalling social agenda. In hindsight, just a little objective research or critical thinking would’ve debunked all of those patently absurd and retarded ideas before they ever gained a foothold in the public discourse – assuming anyone involved ever gave a tinker’s cuss about public discourse in the first place.

Trump got elected. It’s not hugely surprising. Poor people responded to their unhappy situation by voting in a man who plans to cut taxes for the rich. Uneducated people voted for a guy who will make it far, far harder for the average child to get decent schooling without parents who rob banks. It turns out people are stupid. Shocker.

A couple of years ago I probably would have been spitting feathers about it all. But there’s no rage for politics left in me. All that’s left now is to laugh.

This truly is the crowning glory of human achievement – the setting up of a system so confusing to the layman that they willingly truss their own hooves and leap onto the cart to the abattoir, mooing in defiance at the man with the bolt gun. If you can’t laugh at that you must be a Mrs Brown’s Boys fan.

A couple of weeks ago I found myself in a castle on a mountain, reading a text message from my brother.

The news from eastern Spain wasn’t good. My grandfather had been hauling around his prostate cancer for a decade without significant discomfort. But it had spread, to his liver, pancreas, spleen, pelvis, soul, spare bedroom, both rear wheels of his mobility scooter and a tailor who made him a suit in 1995. He was, so said the text message, quite fucked.

And so it proved. One of the best people I’ve known was dead within a week, having held out long enough to be allowed home from hospital to see the cat I now fully expect to be held to account for his murder. I will see you hang, Mimi.

Less than a minute ago I was in the communal kitchen of this open prison some call an office. A man there had been told by a woman that using a disposable cup wasn’t great for the environment. He then said this:

“They say we shouldn’t use plastic cups and we should bring in our own mug but…I haven’t got time to clean it!”

With the announcement that skateboarding is now going to be in the Olympics and various celebrities skateboarding around their private jets before they board them to get away from their fans, I thought it would be a good time to remind everyone of the worth of standing on a plank on wheels. Skateboarding is actually so tragic that it should make someone dressed as a Storm Trooper at a cosplay convention look like Johnny Depp. And he is the coolest man on earth, known fact.

I am sure to the outside world that skateboarding looks cool. It has an underground vibe to it, breaking into places, skateboarding, being arrested and then being released from custody only to do it all over again the next weekend, before going back to a job you hate on Monday because you spent so much time skating during school that you failed every exam you did and ended up writing for a blog that screams at the world, that got a little too personal at the end there.

I am a sad, pathetic loser. I have few interpersonal skills. I spend all day indoors and I almost certainly smell bad. Not that it matters, because I never see anyone except my mother, who I live with.

All of these things are empirically true. Not because they’re true, but because of something I am.

But now they’re such easy targets that if Godzilla stomped on any given London high-street, he’d have to use a tree to wipe four or five agencies’ worth of pomade from his feet. In the last few years these fuckers have been dividing like quiffed amoebas, and some idiot has seen fit to hand them the keys to the city.

Let’s illustrate how they’re wrecking London. How about historic Greenwich? What comes to mind when you think of Greenwich? Greenwich Meantime, the Royal Naval College, the Cutty Sark?

Nah, fuck all that old shit Grandpa. Today’s Greenwich, as the official platform signs at the train station now proudly claim, is the home of Winkworth Estate Agents. And you know what? The signs don’t lie.